


in your delicate hands (take this delicate heart)

by radialarch



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, Grief Sex, M/M, Pining, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Teacher-Student Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-27
Updated: 2020-05-03
Packaged: 2021-03-02 02:28:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,953
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23867524
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/radialarch/pseuds/radialarch
Summary: Dimitri lacks precision. The professor can teach him.
Relationships: Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd/Male Byleth
Comments: 14
Kudos: 152





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> the original concept for this fic was "what if after [spoilers] byleth and dimitri have really ill-advised grief sex" and while this is now, uh, considerably more developed it does still contain pre-skip sexual content.
> 
> thanks to adrian for aiding and abetting as these two continue to eat my brain, and to lucy for tolerating my feelings, love u.

As a child, Dimitri left a string of broken things behind him. There was strength in his hands, but no finesse, a despairing tutor had said. Eventually, he grew better at understanding what things were precious and ought not to be touched; and in combat, it didn’t matter what broke.

—

“Don’t know what they’re thinking, giving us a mercenary for a teacher,” Sylvain said. “Do you think I can switch houses? Man, that Manuela…”

“Yes, please do,” Felix said, cutting into his meat with some distaste, “if it would rid us of your useless prattle. Frankly, I don’t care _what_ he’s been as long as he can fight. You, you were in the skirmish,” he said, and Dimitri realized that last was aimed at him. “Give us an assessment.”

Curt, nearly rude, but Dimitri had long lost the right to ask more from Felix. He considered the question over while chewing on a lump of vegetable. The new professor was a capable fighter, that much was obvious. But Dimitri was no stranger to skilled swordsmen, and there was something in the professor that Gustave had never possessed, nor Thunder Catherine, in all the years Dimitri had watched.

The professor held a sword, he thought, but he moved like a knife.

“Why not challenge him?” Dimitri said, shrugging, and reached for a bite of bread. He didn’t know what the Archbishop wanted, thrusting a stranger into the heart of Garreg Mach, but there was an opportunity here. If the professor could teach him that fluidity, that precision, then Dimitri would take it, and all other machinations be damned.

—

Felix, apparently, _had_ challenged the professor, but none of them saw what Dimitri had until some weeks later, when the training grounds opened. The dummies were new, smelling of fresh straw, and a rack near the door held weapons of every possible kind.

The professor, they’d learned quickly, was not one to waste words. “Pick anything,” he said, gesturing to the rack. “Let’s see you work.”

For some of them, it was easy. Dimitri, the weight of the training lance in his palms; Dedue, with his much-loved axe. Others were more hesitant. Dimitri saw Ashe glance around uncertainly before stringing the bow he’d chosen, and Mercedes refused to approach the rack at all.

“I’ve learned some magic, with the church,” she said, wringing her hands. “Healing magic, mostly. I just don’t see how I’d need something like this, professor?”

The professor didn't smile, didn't frown — didn't do much of anything, really, except consider Mercedes intently. "Medical tent," he said.

"Yes," she said gratefully. "So you understand."

"The enemy gets wind of our movements and sends a force to our rear," he said. "You've tended wounds all morning and your magic is exhausted. How will you protect your patients?"

"I— sorry?" Mercedes had paled. Her mouth was open, pained.

"You need a weapon," the professor said, and wrapped her hands around a bow, already strung. "Pray that you won't ever use it, but I won't have you die because you don't know how."

When the professor walked away, Mercedes was shaking. "Don't worry, Mercie," said Annette, sending a fierce glance at the professor's back, "I'll protect you," but Dimitri noted idly that the bow the professor had chosen was well-used. Less harsh on soft hands than something fresh from the bowyer. 

"Not much for comforting words, is he?" Ingrid remarked under her breath, at ease with a sword in her grip. "We're not at war."

Dimitri looked at her. "He's not a knight."

"No, he's not," she said, unapologetic. "I suppose to a mercenary, every day is war."

"Well, _I_ like him," Felix drawled, striding for a dummy. "It's not all picture books and fairytales, Ingrid. Fighting's dirty. Surviving's what matters."

Dimitri and Felix agreed on this, at least. The ghosts of those who hadn't haunted them both.

—

Because they were young — because they were not, despite it all, yet at war, and because even Garreg Mach grew mundane after a time — the students gossiped about all manners of things. They spoke about Professor Hanneman and Manuela’s shouting matches in the halls, about Sylvain’s latest conquest turned sour, about Seteth’s glowering presence always half a step behind the girl Flayn. And, because he was new and strange in a monastery full of the new and strange, they talked most of all about the professor.

“He was called the Ashen Demon,” Leonie said disparagingly. “I don’t think Captain Jeralt approved.”

“He has a Crest,” offered Linhardt, nibbling on a tea cake stolen from the dining hall. “Very curious. He and Hanneman woke me from such a nice nap, talking about it.”

“He doesn’t ever smile,” fretted Mercedes. “It’s just so hard to tell what he’s thinking, when a body never smiles.” 

“Maybe he’s a ghost,” Sylvain said, a careless joke, but the suggestion kept Ashe jumping for weeks when the professor strode around corners, looking for — well, Dimitri was never sure what he was looking for.

But there were other things, too. A pair of lost gloves, returned. The bracer Mercedes had worn to practice, beautifully made. Felix, at his books, a quill clenched between his teeth.

("Nothing but a sword," Felix had muttered as Dimitri passed by. "I'll show him.")

"Tell me your thoughts on the professor," he asked one night, straightforward as he could only be with Dedue, and Dedue returned the courtesy by not equivocating in his answer.

"He came to the greenhouse last week," he said. "We planted some tomatoes."

Dimitri waited. This, too, was part of knowing Dedue.

"I do not know if the professor enjoys gardening," Dedue said. "But he was gentle with the soil."

Dimitri remembered bruised petals between his fingers and felt, suddenly, unspeakably clumsy. 

"Do you trust him?" he asked, instead of indulging in old hurts, and Dedue said, solid as the earth, "As you do, your Highness."

—

The days passed slow and steady, like clockwork. The professor corrected Dimitri’s grip on the sword, introduced Ingrid to the pegasi, let Annette feed him sweets with a tolerant look in his eye. Dimitri woke early and slept late, went to bed bone-tired and still woke with ghosts in his mouth.

Then there was Zanado.

No mock battle, this, with Claude’s dancing laughter, Edelgard’s flashing grin. The Church had power, and a long reach, and it had decreed death to every bandit in the canyon. In return, the bandits didn’t bother begging for mercy; they meant to kill, a vicious repayment of debt.

Annette had blood on her robes when they’d finished, though none in her face. Sylvain turned from a corpse he’d charred to shapelessness and was abruptly, noisily sick. Mercedes kept her eyes shut while tending to an ugly gash at Felix’s side, though Dimitri marked with some surprise that her hands were sure. 

There was nothing else to be done. The professor wound through the students, huddled together like scared children, speaking to each one in a voice too low to be overheard. Dimitri wiped the blade of his lance clean on a lone clump of grass and thought nothing at all.

“Are you all right?” the professor was asking Dedue. Dedue had killed a man aiming a knife between Dimitri’s ribs, his axe thudding into the muscle at the base of the man’s neck, and the warm spray of blood had left Dimitri’s hands slick on the shaft of his lance. 

“I have done my duty,” said Dedue, unsmiling but unhurt. “Thank you for asking.”

Then the professor turned to Dimitri, and Dimitri readied a lie onto his tongue, and the professor said—

“You did well.”

There was something sharp pressing into Dimitri’s palm. His ears were warm under the heat of the sun.

“Well done,” the professor said again, with a brief touch to his shoulder, and then he was gone. Around Dimitri, the world had gone quiet and still, save the rasp of his own breathing.

“Your Highness,” said Dedue, urgent in his ear. “Please, let go.”

Dimitri uncurled his fingers. Beneath, the lance had cracked clean in two.

—

Slowly, inexorably, came the long days of summer. By midday the heat was oppressive enough that Dimitri would seek refuge in the shade of the training grounds, or the knight’s hall. Dedue, grown in the Duscur heat, never once laughed at him, and for that alone Dimitri was peevish enough to dismiss him, to go wander the greenhouse or the kitchens as he’d like. 

It was a rare free day when there were no more weapons to repair, no more work to be done. He’d spent the morning with half an ear on passing, idle chatter, but no one had asked him for a thing, which left him guilty and relieved in equal measure. He racked the last of the training swords and wandered away from the clean scent of sawdust with only a half-formed idea of where to go next.

In the stables, the professor was crouched in a stall, cradling a slick newborn foal.

“Good, come,” the professor said when he saw Dimitri. He had a bowl balanced precariously on one knee, a rag in hand. It was automatic to crouch beside him, taking the bowl in both hands so the professor’s could be free. “You know something of horses.”

“Ah, not exactly,” Dimitri said. He was no stranger to the stables, the task of mucking out a stall or the sensation of a charger mid-jump between his knees. But he’d known to leave the foals to the tender care of the grooms, and this one was staring with wide, wet eyes, still damp from the ordeal of birth.

The smell of blood was faint but present above the straw; Dimitri did not need to ask about the dam.

“No matter,” said the professor, “you’ll learn,” and dipped the rag into the bowl. “Go on, try.”

The milk in the bowl was warm. “Ashe,” the professor said at Dimitri’s questioning look. “He has a soft spot for orphans, too.”

The foal lapped at the milk dripping down Dimitri’s wrist, first, before it found the rag. Its muzzle was like velvet in the cup of his palm. Dimitri didn’t dare move, didn’t dare breathe; something fragile was fluttering in his throat, and anything he might do would break it.

“Your father rode in battle,” the professor said thoughtfully. “Have you considered it?”

“I.” The foal was butting impatiently at Dimitri’s knee. He stared down at it, bewildered. “Yes, of course.”

Gently — too gently — the professor unwound the rag from Dimitri’s grip, so he could dip it into the bowl a second time. “Then this is a good place to start.”

Already, the foal was growing more demanding, lipping at Dimitri’s fingers without a trace of fear. “Yes,” said Dimitri blindly, and then, “thank you.”

The professor didn’t ask what for; but he stayed with Dimitri until the evening shadows came down, and the wobbles in the foal’s gait had fled for good.

—

The Western Church had never had the resources afforded to the Central. The rebellion was doomed from the start, the suppression quick. Ashe, nonetheless, returned to the monastery tense with exhaustion, and Dimitri couldn’t blame him.

There were no lessons for the day. Dimitri washed all the weapons clean of blood, rubbed the horses down until their heaving sides stilled, and, when he’d run out of other distractions, found himself back in the training grounds.

He picked a sword because he preferred the lance, and he needed something that would demand his full concentration. Here were the forms he'd known since childhood, when he'd broken his first training sword; here was the maneuver that the professor had demonstrated last week, with a flick in the wrist he couldn't quite master. The sword dropped from his grasp, once, twice — at some point he'd jarred his wrist, and a slow numbness was creeping up his fingers.

He dropped the sword a third time and scrambled for it, swearing. He couldn't see for the sweat in his eyes.

"Well, you've improved since I last saw you," said a voice. It was Catherine.

“I was six then,” Dimitri said, and stood, breathing through a stitch in his side. “Care to join me?”

Catherine looked as though she might acquiesce, for a moment. “No, better not,” she sighed, and instead came to take the sword from Dimitri’s hand. “You’re not helping anyone, you know. Doing this to yourself.”

Dimitri could have killed her for that alone. Instead he swiped the wetness from his face and sat as she gestured, beside her.

“How do you do it?”

Catherine, to her credit, didn’t lie. “I made a choice, a long time ago,” she said. “I’m a Knight of Seiros. Sometimes that means—”

“Butchery.”

“Yes,” Catherine said. “If Lady Rhea so orders. You can’t pick and choose your fealty. You do what you have to do, and hope the Goddess will have mercy.”

This was the blazing light of devotion that fueled the Church of Seiros. This was what believers carried to their graves, what devoured saints and heretics both. This was what had killed Christophe, and Lonato, and Catherine and Dimitri both knew it wouldn’t stop there.

“I never thought you were a coward,” Dimitri said.

“Think it, if you want,” said Catherine. “Make a better choice than I did.”

—

There were more deaths. Blood in the Holy Mausoleum, across the floor of Conand Tower. Sylvain cut down something that had once been his brother and all Dimitri could feel was a great weariness. In his dreams, the flickering flames had begun to take on the harsh orange cast of Relics.

He slipped out of the dormitories one night, when the ghosts were beyond appeasing, and nearly ran straight into the professor. “Apologies,” he murmured, taking a step back. “I should’ve been watching where I was going.”

“My fault, I should think,” the professor said. “I wasn’t expecting anyone else at this hour.” He was nearly invisible in the dark, only the torchlight flicker in his eyes. “I suppose you weren’t looking for company.”

The professor wasn’t easy to read even now, but Dimitri had learned, these past few moons. There was something like an invitation in the incline of his head, a choice. Dimitri wanted it. 

“I wouldn’t mind,” he blurted out. “That is, I mean, if it’s not unwelcome with you, of course.”

“Never unwelcome,” said the professor. “Come, then.”

The professor generally walked with a quick, loping stride, but tonight his steps were slow, matching Dimitri’s. Dimitri let the professor lead them where he would, making his promises to the dead.

“So tell me,” the professor said. “What’s bothering you?” 

“Ah.” This was an answer that tumbled easily off the tongue. “Old nightmares. It’s not unusual.”

“Hmm.” A thoughtful sound, which was a dangerous sound. But the professor was always dangerous. It was what Dimitri admired about him.

They were nearly to the graveyard. “And you, professor?” Dimitri said, in lieu of another lie. “What troubles you tonight?”

The professor paused with one hand on the balustrade, head tilted into the night. "Choices I've made," he finally said. "And, I suppose, you."

"Me?"

"All of you," the professor clarified. "We demand so much from the students. Maybe too much."

The professor's other hand came to rest, lightly, on the hilt of his sword. Dimitri wasn't sure if he was even aware of the motion. The Sword of the Creator hummed gently under his touch, and Dimitri knew he was thinking of Miklan.

"You couldn't have stopped it," he said, halting. He was not practiced at giving comfort. "House Gautier's sins are not your own."

The professor shrugged the words off. "There must have been a better way," he said. "With Sylvain. With Ashe." His fingers tightened on the sword. "I killed his father."

There were many answers Dimitri could give to that. That it was kinder than letting the son loose the arrow. That the father had done his best to return the favor. But he found himself putting one hand over the professor's on the railing, as if that could somehow convey the certainty he felt. "No, professor. The Church did."

The professor turned, then. His gaze was distant, regretful. "You're so young," he said.

Dimitri managed to laugh: short, brittle, but a laugh nonetheless. For a brief moment, the dead laughed with him. "Not so much younger than you are, surely. Don't underestimate us."

—

Felix was the first of them to hear about the girl.

“Seems Seteth’s sister’s gone missing,” he remarked. “He’s mobilized all the knights to search for her.”

“I have heard something similar,” Dedue said. “He must think her in real danger.”

Already the monastery was thick with whispers: about masked knights, and Flayn, and those of impure allegiances. Dimitri heard mutters against the Duscur, and bore it because Dedue would never ask him to. The archer Shamir went about flint-eyed, bristling at pointed mentions of Dagda, and the princess of Brigid did much the same. 

“You know who we should really investigate,” Sylvain said as they marched along the long lane by the dormitories. “The professor! Appearing out of the blue a few moons ago, past shrouded in mystery…”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Dimitri said shortly. “The professor would never do such a thing.”

“It’s less ridiculous than _Alois_ ,” said Sylvain, who’d found that particular rumor hilarious. “Look, we all like the professor, don’t get me wrong, but how much do we really know about him? That he’s great with a sword and doesn’t talk much, neither of which disqualifies him from being a scary Death Knight—”

Sylvain stopped walking because Dimitri had. “The professor,” Dimitri said coldly, “has given over more of himself to this school than anyone. Don’t you _dare_ suggest that he—”

“I was joking!” Sylvain yelped. “It was a joke, all right, calm down.” 

“It wasn’t funny,” Ingrid said, reproachful. “Sylvain, can’t you take anything seriously? Flayn could be in real trouble.”

Dimitri wasn’t quite ready to forgive, just yet. “Don’t joke about things you don’t understand,” he said, and had to walk away before he could say anything more.

—

The professor, haunting the grounds in the dead of night. He had his secrets, but so did Dimitri.

(When had he grown to trust the professor so?)

—

With every day that passed, the tension suffusing the monastery wound a fraction tighter. It was almost a relief when they found Professor Manuela in Jeritza's quarters. Here, at last, was something Dimitri could do. Professor Hanneman fretted, badly; Dimitri helped carry the still form to the infirmary and dared not be clumsy.

No battles for him, at least on this day, no blood and broken weapons. The rescue was complete before Dimitri arrived. Only Professor Manuela, stirring to bicker softly with Professor Hanneman. Only a young girl, safe in her brother's arms. 

Only this: the professor, smiling in relief, a sight like the sun.

—

Remire was not Duscur, and Dimitri knew this after because there were villagers who lived.

In the thick of it, however: the world narrowed to a clean, clear rage, and all the ghosts baying for blood. He’d killed those mages who played with lives like puppets and felt only satisfaction.

Ingrid was wary; Annette worried; Sylvain, shaken. Dimitri didn't try to justify himself to any of them. Some things were beyond explanation. Dedue, silent, patient, knew that. So did Felix, even as he despised Dimitri for it, and said so.

He wondered if the professor understood.

It shouldn't have mattered — he hadn't come to the Academy for understanding. But Dimitri thought the professor knew something about those who toyed with innocent lives. There had been a hard look in his eyes when he came upon Remire, and it hadn't gone away.

"Sometimes, I'm not myself," he found himself confessing into the quiet of the training grounds. "There are monsters in this world, professor. There cannot be justice without punishment."

The professor was thoughtful when he sheathed his sword. That was good; condemnation would have meant losing something precious, fragile. "Before I came here," said the professor, "I agreed with you."

"And now?"

"I still do," he said quietly, and reached for Dimitri's lance. "But— be careful."

Dimitri had never learned how to be careful. All he knew how to be was a weapon.

—

Ludicrously, there was to be a ball.

There _was_ a ball, and it ended with a knife.

—

The professor made no sound when Dimitri entered Captain Jeralt's quarters. His eyes were dry now, but distant, focused somewhere far past the book in his hands.

"Professor," he said. "Lady Rhea asks—" Then the professor turned those eyes to Dimitri, and Dimitri stopped talking.

Dimitri had had four long years to learn to live with grief, but the professor's was raw, terrible in its enormity. He hadn't eaten; he might not have slept. Left to himself, it would swallow him whole and leave nothing.

"No, never mind," he said. "You shouldn't have to worry about that." He took a step toward the professor's chair, and then another, while the professor watched him with the blank stare of an animal.

“I’m sorry,” he said, because it needed to be said. “I’m so sorry that this happened to you. I’m sorry I couldn’t stop it.” King Lambert — Queen Patricia — their hungry, accusing faces. Outside, the captain’s body was still unburied. No matter; the ghosts would come soon enough.

He couldn’t lose the professor.

He’d clasped the professor’s hands in his own. On his knees, it was easier to look into the professor’s eyes. “It is not weakness to grieve,” he said. This had not been true for a newly orphaned prince at fourteen, but Dimitri could offer the professor this. The Church might demand all they wanted; Dimitri would give him _time_.

“Take as long as you need,” Dimitri said. Reckless, but a promise all the same. “And when you’re ready to start living, professor, know that I will stand with you.”

“Living,” said the professor, a tired, hollow word.

“It will come,” Dimitri said. “I swear it.” After all, Dimitri had survived this, too. The professor was a stronger man than he was. 

The professor’s eyes were dark, above them his eyelids nearly translucent. Without quite thinking, Dimitri reached up to press his mouth to the thin, damp skin, one and then the other. Under him, the professor went very still.

“Dimitri,” he said.

The ghosts had gone silent. It did not feel like Dimitri’s body was his own when he pressed his lips to the curve of the professor’s cheekbone, down to the side of his throat. There, the professor’s pulse was beating, a frantic flutter.

It might have been the professor, Dimitri thought with a sudden jolt. That thing which was not Monica could have so easily smiled up at the professor as she reached for her blade, and then—

The professor made a small, soft noise when Dimitri curled a hand over his knee.

“I’m sorry,” Dimitri said again, quieter. He didn’t know what he was apologizing for, only that he should, and that there was a minute tremor in the line of the professor’s long, lean thigh; that Dimitri, too, was trembling as he slid one gloved hand under the hem of the professor’s tunic.

He’d never done this before. Some books, in Fhirdiad, and his own hand. It didn’t seem nearly enough when Dimitri wanted to press his cheek to the pale skin of the professor’s inner thigh, to hear the professor’s voice break in desire and not in sorrow — when he _wanted_ , hot and prickling, so much that it terrified him. 

The professor had closed his eyes. “You’ll regret this tomorrow,” he said, clear enough to sound a little heartbroken. “I don’t want that for you.”

“I won’t,” Dimitri promised, his head laid against the professor’s knee like a dog, “I won’t leave you,” and the professor didn’t say another word: not when Dimitri left fingermarks blooming dark up his thighs; not when Dimitri took him into his mouth; not when he pressed a hurt sound into his shoulder and shuddered, spilling streaks of white over Dimitri’s gloved hands.

—

A lie: _I won’t leave you_.

A lie: _I trust you_.

A lie: the Flame Emperor, wearing Edelgard's face.


	2. Chapter 2

Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd had been condemned. Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd had been duly executed.

Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd was, therefore, a dead man.

—

Garreg Mach had fallen in the first Imperial assault, but time had compounded the damage: the rains wearing away at abandoned stone, turning walls to rubble and rubble to earth. The whole place smelled of rot: death and dust and, beyond that, the skittering of rats. Dimitri had not expected the place to be standing; he had not expected the place at all, save that an Imperial convoy would pass through the mountains come morning and he needed shelter for a night.

His body still remembered the long climb to the gates. It remembered living, the clamor of tradesmen and knights and students all around it. A stray cat darting underfoot; the call of a horse in the stables. The crackle of fires in the night.

There were no more fish in the pond. Water had pooled in a corner of the reception hall and turned rotten. In the cathedral, half the vaulted ceiling was gone, leaving only the cold wind whistling down.

Here, the dead were everywhere. A few more wouldn't make a difference.

—

Some Imperial soldiers begged for mercy. They talked about their families, their loved ones like they had a right to those things, and didn’t stop until the moment Dimitri cut their throats. Others, with the convert’s zeal, spat at him even as he held the lance to their ribs, Edelgard’s name on their tongues.

Those, Dimitri killed slower.

—

More vermin came. Soldiers. Spies. Cowards and traitors. The blood that spilled from them could have fed a river; it could have fed the dead.

But Edelgard was safe in Enbarr, and every night the ghosts came with accusation in their eyes. Glenn, with Felix’s mocking smile. His father, whose face was beginning to fade. Dedue, whom Dimitri had left to die, and who would now never be angry for it the way Dimitri deserved.

When the professor came, the only surprise was that it had taken this long.

—

The professor was solid under Dimitri’s hands when Dimitri pinned him to the ground; his throat quivered under the touch of the dagger. “You’re dead,” Dimitri said, “you _died_ ,” and the professor said, almost gently, “Not yet.”

“Then you’re a spy.” The dagger scratched a thin red line down to the hollow of the professor’s throat. “Tell me why I shouldn’t kill you.”

He should have killed him. He _wanted_ to kill him.

“You’re alive.” The professor didn’t flinch from the blade. This, more than anything else, was what saved him. “I’m glad.”

Dimitri let him go, then, and turned, suddenly sick. “Don’t be a fool, professor.”

It didn’t matter what Dimitri was. The dead demanded their payment.

—

The professor fought well.

Dimitri had hunted rats like these many times. Cowardice or desperation made them clumsy; the professor’s aid had not been necessary.

But there was grace in the way the professor wielded a sword, brutal and efficient. He had wanted that, Dimitri remembered, watching him. A lifetime ago, young and stupid, he had wanted it. Now, the bandits fled from Dimitri's lance and were felled by the sword, and he wanted nothing except another death.

“Someone’s coming,” said the professor, low, as the bandits dropped back to regroup. “Listen.”

Dimitri raised his head. The professor was right: high in the sky, there was the sound of pegasi. He felt his lips curl. “Whoever it is, I can handle it.”

The professor gave a brief shake of his head. “We.”

That didn’t deserve a response; Dimitri didn’t give it one. Easier to lose himself in the thrust and slash of battle, the sensation of the lance ramming home. The professor could think what he wanted, as long as his sword was in motion.

Overhead, the soft swoosh of wings; a glimmer of gold. “He’s here!” he heard a shout over the wind. “Your Highness!” And then, startled: “Professor?”

The Lions had come.

—

Life had returned to Garreg Mach. Dimitri hated it. Too many distractions and frivolities, and endless questions. Seteth spoke of the archbishop as if the Church still had meaning. Gustave was traitorously close to refusing to move on Enbarr. And the way the others looked at him … like any of them had the right to disappointment.

Only the dead had that privilege.

There was no way to be alone in the monastery anymore. After the meeting, it wasn’t long before someone found him.

Smallest of mercies that the professor didn’t begin with an attempt at conversation. Dimitri refused to shift, staring into the rubble, and the professor merely stood with him. Strange, how the sound of the professor’s breathing seemed to echo in the abandoned space. But then, the ghosts had never breathed.

The professor was raising a hand now, quiet and slow. Dimitri had done the same in the past, trying to soothe a wild, hurt thing. “You’re injured.”

A gash, on the inside of his forearm, crusted over with darkened blood. Dimitri vaguely remembered one of the thieves with a knife. The professor laid his hand there, and there was a sudden cool sensation like water, magic shimmering at the professor’s fingertips — the torn flesh made whole, pink and new.

Dimitri bared his teeth. It was not a smile. “Waste of energy, professor. It would have healed on its own.”

The professor hadn’t taken his hand away. With a careful fingertip, he brushed the lattice of scars, old and silver, that ran down Dimitri’s arm. Then he looked up, and Dimitri knew he must be studying the eye.

“You see,” he said, gesturing to it. “I’ve managed to survive.”

“Yes,” the professor said, still watching him. “You have.”

—

Mercedes brought Dimitri a cup of tea and a hopeful smile. Gustave came to speak interminably about supplies and morale. Annette continually sighed at the rubble at Dimitri’s feet, as though she could clear away years worth of ruin with the force of her concern. Eventually, they all went away.

Felix didn’t.

“You’re pathetic,” was the first thing he said, kicking at a bit of stone. “At least now, everyone knows.”

“Go away,” said Dimitri.

For a moment, he thought Felix might. But of course it couldn’t be that easy.

“We thought you’d died, you know. Five fucking years.” He shook his head. “I’m starting to wonder if it wouldn’t have been better if someone _had_ put you out of your misery.”

“You’re all talk.” Felix had stiffened, when Dimitri glanced at him. “Do it yourself, then. Stop being such a coward.”

Felix did put his hand on his sword, then. “How dare you, _prince_?” There was a world of contempt in that one word. “With everyone who’s died for you, you’d dare throw that away?” His mouth was thin with rage. “You’re not the only one who lost someone. You think I didn’t—” His voice cracked.

“Then why won’t you _help me_ ,” Dimitri snarled. He didn’t have to see Glenn to imagine his presence, faded and desperate and hungry. Felix was only a reminder of a debt owed; every day, it became harder to repay. “Help me kill Edelgard, and all this can end.”

Felix stared at him for a moment. “You’re insane,” he finally said, and turned. “Do what you want. I’m done wasting my time.”

Glenn stayed, of course. The dead never left.

—

Dimitri dreamed.

The worst wasn’t remembering his father die or his stepmother vanishing into the flames. It wasn’t the bodies he’d torn apart, or the times a stray arrow had nearly cut short all his promises.

The worst, the one that sent him retching in the half-light of dawn, was always the same. He’d finally find Edelgard. He’d have her at his mercy, his lance at her heart.

Then she’d smile at him, cruel and familiar, and he’d lose his nerve.

—

"You said she was your stepsister."

Dimitri wiped bile from his mouth and glanced up. The professor was sitting on the floor, looking thoughtful.

"It doesn't matter to me," he promised, and sat up. The chill of stone, seeping through his clothing, steadied his shaking hands. "She is a monster now, nothing more. I will have her head."

The professor was silent for a moment, tilting his face up to the moon. Through the ruined ceiling, the light that fell on them was nearly bright as day.

"It would matter to me," he said quietly. "It should matter."

The shock of it numbed Dimitri, briefly; then all he could feel was anger. "Is that a confession?" he asked. "Are you here to betray me, professor?"

The professor shook his head. "Never," he said, and the certainty of that word was enough to soothe something desperate in Dimitri's heart. "But you shouldn't have to feel that you're not … allowed." The professor was picking his words with delicate care. "You don't need to prove yourself to me."

A pretty sentiment, but Dimitri was too far past that. The doubts were not his alone; too long without a death, the ghosts grew restless.

"Why are you here?" Dimitri finally said. It was the best he could do without shattering the grey calm of dawn. "What do you want from me?"

"Nothing," the professor said, and looked away. His eyelashes, pale and fine, still cast dark shadows across his cheeks. "I couldn't sleep. That's all."

—

The professor cut the Imperial general’s throat in one clean motion, and Dimitri thought, fleeting, of the professor saying: _you don’t need to prove yourself to me_.

—

The Duke of Fraldarius kept his word, which meant they had an army.

It also meant more talk.

“Your Highness,” said Rodrigue. “I must beg one more time for a chance to speak freely.”

Areadbhar fit familiarly into Dimitri’s grip. Strange. The last time he’d seen it had been in his father’s hands. Back then, he’d never envisioned wielding it, because he could never envision his father dying. It was a weapon for the King of Faerghus, no one else.

“Save your breath,” he said. “You’ve done us a great service, Rodrigue, but we must march on Enbarr. You cannot persuade me otherwise.”

“Yes, in that I am your servant,” Rodrigue said with a bow. “But I cared greatly for your father, Your Highness. And he cared greatly for you.”

The ghost of his father was never far away. 

“Speak, then,” he said tensely. “But do not ask the impossible.”

“Your father understood that great passion could drive ordinary men,” said Rodrigue. “But you are not an ordinary man, Your Highness. Should you fall, the people of Faerghus would lose their last hope. You are the King, sire, the last of the House of Blaiddyd. You must understand that you have a duty to your people.”

“You dare speak to me of _duty_?” Dimitri had been a slave to it for nine years. Every night, the ghosts reminded him with unblinking eyes.

“I must.” Rodrigue did not flinch from his anger. “I, too, have a duty, Your Highness. I failed it when Lambert went to Duscur and I did not. You will forgive me for not wishing to fail him a second time.”

“You did not fail,” Dimitri said, low, and knew it to be true. “My father was betrayed; that is all.”

"Sire—"

"No, enough." His father had trusted. Dimitri would not make the same mistake. "Out of respect for you, I have heard you speak. Now hear me. Some sins cannot be erased save with blood. There is no other path than this."

Rodrigue bowed his head. "Lambert once told me," he said softly, "that the world could not remain as it was. That left to itself, the strong would always devour the weak."

His father had told Dimitri that, too. And Dimitri, fool as he was, had believed it right until the moment the world had swallowed everyone he'd loved.

"You are dismissed," Dimitri said, sharp as ice. "You have your duties. Go."

Rodrigue had survived this long by knowing when to yield. He bowed once more, and, with a troubled glance, was gone.

—

The far bank of the Airmid was not so different from the near side, except that it was one step closer to Enbarr.

Dedue had come back from the dead, bringing with him men of Duscur. The row of tents in the field flew Kingdom colors, ragged but proud. For the first time in a long, long time, Dimitri could nearly envision a future after Edelgard. All the dead put to rest, and silence in his head.

He went to check on the mounts and found Ingrid bloodied, clutching a bridle.

“Are you injured?” he asked sharply. They had other pegasi, but trained riders were fewer. “I can call for Mercedes.”

“No, don’t,” Ingrid said. “It’s not mine. The blood, I mean. Mostly.” She looked down at her hands, like she’d forgotten what she held. “It— it was Ferdinand’s.”

Ingrid and the von Aegir heir hadn’t been close at the Academy. They both rode well; perhaps they’d trained together once or twice. No more than two strangers who’d shared a space for a time. Yet Ingrid’s knuckles were white over the bloody straps. 

“He would have killed you, if it had come to that,” said Dimitri. “You knew who we were fighting.”

“Don’t be so— so _inhuman_ ,” Ingrid snapped. “I knew. Of course I knew. And if it had been the other way around, I imagine maybe he would’ve felt a little regret about murdering a schoolmate, too. You might not feel a thing, but. We can’t all be like you.”

They’d been children together, long enough that they’d both seen each other weep, seen each other rage. But Dimitri had never known before the depth of contempt Ingrid could bury in a look.

"What did you expect?" Dimitri said. "This isn't one of your storybooks. You wanted to see knighthood; here you have it "

"Knighthood isn't about fighting," Ingrid said. "It's about our duty to the people. I thought you knew that."

That was what Glenn had always said.

"That didn't save him," Dimitri said. "Ingrid—"

"No." Ingrid's eyes were blazing. "You don't get to twist him into your madness, too. You're not the only one who loved him. Glenn would have hated this. Hated you for doing this." She still had her fingers tangled in the bridle when she got to her feet. "Your Majesty," she said. Her voice cut like a knife.

Dimitri let her go. For a moment, there was nothing in his ears, absolutely nothing at all. And in his throat: the old fear of shattering something irreparable, cold like iron.

—

The cycle wouldn’t stop.

A girl had killed Dimitri’s father. For that Dimitri had killed a man; and with that, he had condemned Rodrigue to die. More corpses. More ghosts. 

And yet _—_

 _None of us died for you. Your life is your own_.

How did this end?

—

Dedue would have come to Enbarr, and this was why Dimitri did not ask. Dedue had already thrown away his life for Dimitri once; Dimitri would not give him the chance to do it again. He dismissed Dedue for the night and slipped out the window as soon as Dedue had retired. With luck, Dedue would not raise alarm until morning; and unlike Dedue, Dimitri was an excellent rider.

When he stepped off the ledge, the professor was waiting.

“You’re going to Enbarr,” the professor said. He didn’t sound surprised; but then, it was not a difficult thing to guess.

“Yes." A cool, grey drizzle was falling. Dimitri shifted from one foot to another, settling the lance more firmly in his grasp. The professor was close, too close; how often had he chided Dimitri for letting a swordsman come into close range? _Your height, the reach of the lance — all this is an advantage you surrender_. 

The professor flicked a glance at Dimitri’s hands. He had always been good at reading his opponents, and Dimitri frustratingly so. Dimitri had never once beaten him in a fair fight.

The professor eased his hand off the hilt of his sword. When he took a step back, his stance was easy, open. The mercenaries at the monastery had a term for it, half-mockery and half-truth: they called it dead man walking.

"You can leave," the professor said, and for the first time since they'd met he sounded— tired. Breakable. "I won't stop you. But you should— you should be sure." There was a bitter smile on his mouth. "Do it because you want it, not because someone expects it of you. If I taught you anything, it should be that."

"What I want—" Dimitri began, and stopped. He felt like he was choking on the force of his desire. "I want to save them," he said, "I want them to live, but I can't, I—" The rain was wet on his face. "This is what I've done for so long. Would you ask me to let go?"

"You said to me once," the professor said, "that you would stand with me when I was ready to live." The professor, bowed with grief. Dimitri's hand on his knee. "I would offer you the same."

He reached for Dimitri, a delicate, open hand. All Dimitri had to do was take it.

"But what right do I have to live," he said. His breath was coming in great, ragged gasps. "With all I've done, and all that I owe. What can I live for, if not this?"

 _Live for what you believe in_ , Rodrigue had said. The professor said it now, and in his mouth it was a prayer. A blessing.

Dimitri had to pry his numb fingers from the lance. Grasping the professor's hand in his own was the hardest thing he had ever done.

"Your hands," he said, wondering. "They're warm."

The professor didn't pull away when Dimitri pressed his lips to the join of their hands, the curve of each knuckle. "Dimitri," he said in a rasp. "Please."

The professor's mouth, parting for Dimitri’s, burned like summer.

—

The ghosts didn’t vanish all at once. It had been a habit for so long, to be haunted. Felix still snarled, which was to be expected, and Dedue said nothing about the damp in Dimitri’s cloak in the morning, only spread it by the fire to dry.

But there were other things. The look of relief on Gustave’s face when Dimitri turned his gaze to Fhirdiad. The frown that smoothed away from Ashe’s forehead; Annette’s infectious grin. The sweet, fevered memory of the break in the professor’s voice when he’d said, hoarse, _don’t stop_.

It was deep spring. The noa trees were in full bloom when Dimitri came home.

—

"I can't believe it," said Ingrid. "We really did it."

"Don't sound so surprised," said Felix. "It was either this or die. I rather prefer this, all things considered."

"Oh, don't be so morbid," said Sylvain, who'd gone to look out a window. "Hmm. Well, there certainly is a crowd out there."

"What?" said Dimitri sharply. Cornelia had only died within the hour. It was too early to think of speeches.

"The news has spread," Dedue said, as mild as ever. "Faerghus would greet their king, Your Highness."

The crowd was a dull roar through the thick castle walls, but as Dimitri approached the balcony the noise grew and grew. He paused before he could see them all. "I can't do this," he said, a panicked flutter in his chest. "Not after everything that's happened."

"You must," said Gustave, solemn and grave and unbendable as rock. "They are your people, Your Highness. You have a responsibility to them, just as they do to you."

Gustave was right. For five years, Faerghus had suffered under Cornelia's rule. The people deserved this now, even if Dimitri was a poor messenger for it.

There was the sudden scrape of boots on stone, and then the professor was looking up into Dimitri's face. "Come," he said. "Your Majesty. They're waiting."

"Don't call me that," Dimitri said, coloring. He thought of the professor's hand in his own. Of his father, when he'd faced the crowd with his head high and Areadbhar gleaming, like he'd been born to it.

The professor tilted his head. "What should I call you, then?"

There was the faintest curve to the line of his mouth. Dimitri wouldn't have seen that five years ago. A week ago.

"Just Dimitri," he said. Breathed.

Went to face his people.

—

Claude had sent for them; and then he had gone. He'd left behind a bow, the conditional loyalty of half a dozen lords, and a message.

"How can you leave this?" Dimitri had asked. So many had died for power. Claude shrugged it off with grace.

"Easy," Claude had said. "Sometimes, there are bigger things than this."

He flashed a grin at the professor before he went, and Dimitri thought about the professor, too, heading for bigger things.

—

When Dimitri was twelve, he'd picked out a dagger with infinite care and offered it to a friend. 

He did it again, standing in front of the Imperial castle. Edelgard took it, and it changed nothing.

—

“Professor,” Dimitri said. “Could I have a word?”

“Always,” said the professor, and let himself be steered to a quiet room, pressed into a chair. “What can I do for you?”

It had been a week since the thing which had been Edelgard had died. Only a week since the professor had taken his hand and led him out into the sun, yet Dimitri felt the pressure across his palm still, in quiet moments.

“Ashe is leaving,” he said. Felix had already gone, and so had Sylvain, to pick up the battered pieces of their lordships. This was the way: a war ended, and people went back to their lives. _Bigger and better things_. “I think Mercedes will be gone within the month. And—”

“And?” the professor prompted gently, when Dimitri didn’t go on.

“You,” Dimitri said. “You would stay?”

This was not the way of mercenaries, who came with the scent of blood and left with the same. But the professor had stayed when Dimitri had nothing; he was here, still, and every day Dimitri felt Fhirdiad fold tighter around him. 

“You know you have my loyalty,” the professor said blandly, and Dimitri felt his heart lurch before he noticed the professor’s eyes, crinkled in a small, private smile. 

“Not just that,” he said, laughing. “Knighthood doesn’t suit you, professor.” Sharp, unsettling, strange. None of the knights Dimitri had grown up with were anything like this.

The professor stroked a hand through Dimitri’s hair when he settled onto his knees. “Maybe you should stop calling me that,” he said, thoughtful. “It’s been a long time since I’ve taught you anything.”

Dimitri tipped his head against the professor’s knee and hummed. The firelight was turning stray strands of hair golden where they wound around the professor’s fingers. “You taught me how to live,” he said. “I think that’s enough.”

The professor pressed a palm to Dimitri’s jaw, tilting his face up. He felt drowsy, like a sun-drunk cat, held between the professor’s hands.

“I would keep you,” the professor said. “Safe.”

“I am,” Dimitri said. It was the easiest thing in the world to turn, to press a kiss to the palm of the professor’s hand. “You have me.”

**Author's Note:**

> i hang out on [tumblr](https://radialarch.tumblr.com) yelling about dimitri, come say hi


End file.
